Honeysuckle and Lemon

When a young man rhymes, we smile and nod. When old, he is forgiven. When in between, we shake our heads, and think we understand him. Or do we just pretend? Fool that I am, I can never tell. But I wish him well. I wish him well. For that is love, and this is heaven.

Honeysuckle and Lemon

Paneled wall in oaken hue,
piano in corner near wood stove;
old school desk, Royal thereon,
and lots of cheap white paper —

many a song came on that way,
when work was done
but never complete,
when shoes were off
and tired feet were one
of any imagined burdens —

many a song was learned that way,
once hands were scrubbed
and on the eighty-eights —

page after page in old world tongue,
born to dream, resigned to fate,
the Royal could wait its turn —

the Royal could wait,
the stove could warm,
the wood could burn —

the hour was late,
the night was long,
the voice was low,
the clouds were on,
the moon was gone —

when I was old, and you,
my love, were young.

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